Rumpelstiltskin


Sometimes- just sometimes Amanda wished her father didn’t love her quite so much. Sitting in her office, staring at the computer screen, she felt her stomach turn to jelly. It was his fault really that she’d been given this horrible task, and right now she just wanted to scream.



Not that it would do her- or anyone else -the slightest bit of good. Today was Sunday and apart from the concierge and three Pilipino cleaners she was alone in the building. Alone that is with a computer and a puzzle worthy of Pascal.



She got up, stretched her arms above her head, and took the three short strides to the window. Terra firma was 18 storeys below, and the triple glazing shut out air and noise from the streets. Some wag had told her that her floor was the preferred launch pad of suicides (there had been five in as many years), hence the sealed glazing.



A bleep informed her she had a new text on her phone. ‘Where are you Mandy? Lunch ready. Love Dad’



She texted back ‘no can do Dad. Working’



Another bleep.’ Not coming? ‘



She sighed. Dad was so sentimental. He used to cry over that passage in ‘A Christmas Carol’ when Bob Cratchit thinks Martha isn’t coming for Christmas dinner. Damn it. She wasn’t going to find an answer sitting here. She pressed fn and z and sent the machine to sleep, before picking up her swipe card and bag, and heading for the lift.



Watching her movements from the office window opposite, the shadowed figure noted the time, and stood up to follow her.




Amanda reached the front door and handed her key to the concierge. ‘I might be back later, George- will there be anyone on the desk?’


George was grumpy. He didn’t like being alone in the office block at weekends and holidays- not since the IRA had bombed Canary Wharf on a Sunday, some years back. Empty buildings were a temptation to terrorists- ‘after all, it was only money that was the target’- rubbish! Tell that to the poor sodding caretaker’s missus.’ When he was on duty he liked to keep everything locked down- and he hated workaholics like Amanda Smith- wandering in and out of the building whenever they liked. She worked long hours through the week didn’t she? Why did she need to be there on Sundays too?


‘You wouldn’t prefer to work from home Miss? Only we’re short staffed, and we were hoping to lock up when you’d gone.’



‘Okay George, I’ll take the hint. See you Monday.’ He pressed the switch to unlock the door and she was halfway down the street when she realised she’d left her phone on her desk.’




Turning back, she bumped into the stranger, almost sending him flying. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t ....’



He looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him. He was dressed in what Dad would call smart casuals: tweed jacket; corduroy trousers; Tattersall check Vyella shirt and cashmere sweater- all in muted shades of the Scottish moors. She couldn’t help thinking it didn’t look right for London on a drizzly December Sunday.



‘No harm done, really’ He smiled and she noticed that the smile was lop sided, as if he’d had too strong a local anaesthetic for dental work.



‘I take it that you work for Konigsreich?’



‘Amanda Smith’ she took the proffered hand. His grasp was dry and tight. ‘I’m doing freelance work for them. Hedge Fund stuff.’



‘Mustn’t forget the hedges, then. In my day that sort of thing was called gambling, and one did it on the race course. ‘ She got the feeling that he didn’t approve of her- and she felt uneasy, talking about business to a complete stranger. She excused herself and left, feeling his gaze boring into her back all the way to the Tube.




She arrived at Dad’s house at 3pm. The Tube was slow- two stations had workmen fixing the rails, and she was stuck in a tunnel for the best part of an hour. He greeted her with a kiss and a glass of red wine. ‘Drink up, pet, I knew you’d not be able to resist my pot roast.’



The table was set for three. ‘Are you expecting anyone, Dad? Who’s the extra place for?’


‘Just Babs from two doors up. I told you about her last week, didn’t I? She’s new to the area- I met her at quiz night.’



‘Don’t worry, love,’ he said, seeing the question in her gaze. ‘I’m not trying to replace your Mum.’




All of Amanda’s life there had just been the two of them- Arthur Smith, the widower, and his little girl. The photographs on the stairwell in his small two up two down bore witness to the pride he felt for his clever daughter. There were only two pictures of him and Millicent, her mother- the wedding photo, and the snap taken in the maternity ward: Mum gazing adoringly at the tiny baby in her arms. Twenty hours after that picture, Milly was dead- an allergic reaction to the antibiotics she’d been given following the Caesarian section that brought Amanda into the world. Everyone worried for Arthur’s sanity when he broke down in huge shaking sobs in the mortuary. Milly’s body- still swollen from pregnancy was held for autopsy over a month. By that time the social workers had been close to recommending Amanda be placed with foster carers. No-one thought he could cope. But cope he did, and he made Amanda the focus of his very existence.



At the foot of the stairs was the portrait taken in Boots the Chemist, of a three month old Mandy, in a frilly frock her grandmother had made, along with her first curl, trapped in a knot of silver thread. At the top of the stairs was her graduation picture from the London School of Economics. In between, gilt frames captured her every achievement- photographs; certificates, and mementos.



Looking at those pictures as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, Amanda realised for the first time, how few of those pictures had Dad in them- he always seemed to be on the other side of the camera- capturing her life for posterity.



He’d made so many sacrifices. After a woman who’d been keen on him had smacked her- she’d been a demanding toddler- he’d refused to date anyone. When the teachers at her primary school had intimated that she was clever enough to win a scholarship for a prestigious school, he’d gone without to ensure she was smartly turned out, so that no-one would sneer at his princess. He hated to be parted from her, so when a place at Cambridge University was offered (a place on reflection where she might have been able to sow the seeds of a life for herself- and he might have had the space to start his own life over again-)she turned it down, opting instead for a college which would allow her to live at home.



She changed out of her work clothes into jeans and a T shirt. Even though she’d been working for three years now, she was still Daddy’s girl, living at home- that is when she actually got home. Most of the time she got in long after Dad had gone to bed.



Arthur was a painter and decorator to trade. He worked long hours, but started his working day before Amanda rose at 7am. In fact he was partly responsible for her present job- and her current predicament. The firm he worked for had been contracted by a fancy interior designer after her usual team had let her down. All of a sudden, instead of painting the exterior of pubs, he found himself working on the Belgravia townhouse owned by the chairman of Konigsreich Bank.



Last year, the guys in his team had teased him about his brain box of a daughter. If she’s so clever, Art, why don’t you get her to help you win the Lottery or somefing?



He’d repeated what they’d said over their takeaway that night, and as a joke, she picked up the paper and suggested an accumulator bet. For the next month they studied form, and he glowed with pride when he was able to announce that he and Mandy were off to Florida on the strength of the £50k she’d netted him.



The money had paid off Amanda’s student loan and what remained of the mortgage too. It had also cemented what she wanted to do. Investment banking was like betting- it offered similar opportunity to study form.....




She took a job in a bank. She had a first class degree, but no contacts and she ended up working as a teller in a branch of Barclays. It was a job she could have got with her A levels, but her peers from LSE who had family in Head office got straight into the City. She took exams to be a branch manager, and used the remaining money from her big win to start a small portfolio of shares- poring over the pink pages of the FT to study a different sort of form.



She won and she lost, but within a year she had quadrupled the money. Then she overheard a call from one of Dad’s friends about a horse running in three races in Cheltenham over a fortnight. She ‘borrowed’ money from the fund and placed another accumulator. She told Dad nothing until she counted out the cash on the kitchen table- all hundred thousand pounds of it.



A month ago he was working on the high ceiling of the banker’s hallway, carefully filling in all of the detail that his team had missed, and boasting about Mandy’s latest achievement.



‘So what’s she doing working for Barclays then?’



‘Waiting for her big break, isn’t she? She’s applying for internships now- she’s got the money to stop taking a wage for a year. Trouble is they don’t appreciate what she can do. Sometimes I think she can turn straw into gold.’



Below him, a door closed softly.



Amanda had been ploughing through a pile of rejection letters when she opened a letter with the Konigsreich address. She had no recollection of writing to Konigsreich- but her hands brushed the thick deckled paper, with the engraved coat of arms, and they began to shake. The offer was an internship-six months- and she was to report to their head office on the first of the month.



She handed the letter to Dad.




‘Konigsreich? That’s the chap with the fancy pad in Belgravia? ‘



‘Dad, what did you tell him?’



‘Never saw the geezer, Princess. Must have been Dave - shouting his mouth off as usual.’




She’d been working at KR for a month before she set eyes on Mark Kingsland. Along with the hedge fund team, she was called to the monthly meeting, held in the board room and catered by two Sloanes – a table laden with salad and quiche, and a tower of profiteroles. Her team leader praised her work, and it was suggested that she accompany him to a meeting in Geneva the following week. It meant missing her father’s 50th birthday celebration. She rang to tell him the bad news.




‘Never mind me, Princess- its your big break. We can have a joint celebration later- when they start paying you.’